


A New Beginning

by TheAlienQueenOfTragedy (Sweety_Mutant)



Series: The Hooker Series [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (i used the non-con warning for the dubcon just in case), 1960s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Cold War, Drugged Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kidnapping, Lack of Communication, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Limited, POV alternating between the three main characters - one POV per chapter, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/TheAlienQueenOfTragedy
Summary: “Meet me in the café where it all began, the morning after you come back, at nine. I will be waiting.”Illya could not wait to see Napoleon again. It was the new beginning they deserved. It was his chance to make things up with Napoleon and tell him important he was, how much—This fic is the direct sequel to Hooked Up and picks up where Hooked Up ended, so I definitely recommend you read that one first :)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Series: The Hooker Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1849531
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	1. Illya's POV

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is still a work in progress, but look! I actually started writing the sequel to Hooked Up! (True, I promised I would, and it took me long enough, but I needed to sort out ideas and I had bigger projects to work on -and some I am still working on- so it took the time it took.  
> Anyway, I hope you will enjoy this sequel, it will hopefully not be as long as the original but as you will probably have guessed by the tags it won't be a short fluffy pr0n fic either. -Although there will be good stuff, I promise :p -
> 
> Also many thanks to my beta Amethyst, her help is godsent.

Choosing his clothes took Illya longer than he would ever admit that Tuesday morning. ‘ _ Meet me—’  _ He was feeling younger than he had in years. ‘ _ —in the café where it all began—’  _ He had stared at the ceiling until three in the morning, caught in memories, a movie playing silently in his mind. ‘ _ —the morning after you come back—’  _ Sleep had eluded him until jet lag and exhaustion took him. He dreamed, something disturbing that he could not recall. ‘— _ at nine—’  _ He had skipped breakfast, Gaby judging him behind a coffee mug with her sparkling eyes and mischievous smile. ‘ _ —I will be waiting.’  _ He was feeling so so young, nervous, almost bashful. Only once outside did he realise he had picked the same jacket he had worn the day before. Too late to change again. ‘ _ I will be waiting.’  _

Illya hailed a cab and gave the address of the café. It was strangely reminiscent of their first meeting. He was tired, did not know what to expect, sitting in a cab while Napoleon waited for him. No. The first time, Napoleon had been there to pay a debt, neither Illya nor him had wanted it. This time, Napoleon was waiting for Illya _.  _ And Illya could not wait to see him. 

Everything would be different this time. 

_ I will be waiting. _

Illya looked at his watch, five to nine. Why was that cab so slow?! He closed his eyes, took a deep breath in an effort to calm his nerves. Everything was going to be okay. Napoleon would be there, hair dark and dashing smile, Napoleon would be there— but what if he was not? What if it was a trap? What if the CIA— Illya banged his fist against the seat. No. No, no, no, he was not afraid. Yet… he might be driving head first into a trap. The note… the note could very well have been fake. Anyone could have sent it. They had no way of knowing. Gaby, Gaby had said it came from Napoleon, tried to argue Illya against himself. Gaby would have known if it was a trap. But how? If they had Napoleon, whoever they were, they could have forced him to write the note. And Illya, the fool, had not notified Mr Waverly of this meeting. What if something happened? How long would it take for Gaby to worry? For U.N.C.L.E. to piece two and two together and look for him? By then, he would be dead. Corpse dumped in the sea, disfigured. Would Napoleon be dead too? Would anyone find them? Illya felt his heart beat faster and faster. He did not know what to do anymore. Stop. He asked the driver to stop. He threw more money than necessary at him, mumbled thanks and stumbled on the sidewalk. Stop, calm down, a voice repeated in his head, you need to calm down.

Illya’s cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. He was supposed to have ice water in his veins. He was not one to worry himself sick over his own death in the backseat of a cab. He was a professional. One of the best agents the KGB and U.N.C.L.E. ever had. Had he changed so much, in so little time? Had meeting Napoleon, caring for him, changed him to the point where he lost his cool so easily? He would never have panicked before, never felt afraid for himself this way. Illya shook his head. It would not be a trap. He believed in this second chance so bad it had to happen. They deserved this new beginning.

Illya took a few seconds to calm down, leaning against a nearby wall. He would be late, but it was alright. Napoleon would wait for him.  _ I will be waiting.  _ Illya would then only need to apologise, and it would be forgotten. Feeling better, Illya walked to the café. As the terrace came into view, he checked his watch. Quarter past nine.

Illya stopped walking, and took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay. They would get their second chance. Illya’s eyes swept over the terrace, looking for Napoleon’s silhouette. His face, his eyes. 

At last, he found him.

Napoleon had his back turned to Illya, but it could only be him. Dark blue suit, perfectly tailored. Broad shoulders under the fabric. Dark brown hair, slicked back. Illya smiled. Napoleon was there. It had not been a trap. Napoleon was waiting for him, and all Illya had to do was take the stairs, a few steps, twenty, thirty at most. He would sit down on the chair facing Napoleon’s. ‘Hello,’ he would say. No, ‘Hello Napoleon’. Too casual? ‘Good morning Napoleon’  _ I’ve missed you.  _ Napoleon would look up from his cup of coffee and smile, a sparkle in his eyes. And Illya would smile in turn, and they would look into each other’s eyes, the coffees getting cold— Illya froze. There was a faint red dot on the blue of Napoleon’s suit. Too late, Illya felt the presence behind him. Something cold against his own back. “Be nice, or he dies.” 

Illya’s instinct urged him to turn around, overpower whoever was stupid enough to threaten him, but his body refused to move.  _ Napoleon _ — 

Who was this man? Was Napoleon in on it? The feeling of shame was overwhelming. He had been so stupid, to think it was safe. He had known all along it would be a trap.

“Now,” the man behind Illya said, “do you see the black car at the corner?”

Illya nodded. He should have hit the man. Broken his teeth, crushed his skull.

“Walk to it, and don’t try anything.”

Illy complied.  _ Napoleon _ — He let himself be led into the car.  _ Napoleon, I _ — As soon as he was in, his kidnapper and another thug cuffed his hands behind his back, then bound his ankles together and blindfolded him. For half a second, Illya hesitated to try to break free of his bonds and make whoever had attacked him pay. He did not,  _ what if Napoleon is still in danger?  _ They took his gun away too, and Illya felt a sharp pain in his neck. Of course, they would drug him. He would not have remained docile for long, not when they would have been far away from Napoleon. Illya expected to pass out from the drug, and he tried his best to fight the numbness. But he did not pass out, his muscles feeling heavier by the second.  _ Paralysis serum then.  _ He heard the car start and speed off. Illya could barely feel his arms and legs now, and if he was not sandwiched between two thugs, he would have fallen into a sad heap. He was not even able to defend himself until the drugs wore off. He felt defeated. These men… they could very well take Napoleon too now, and Illya would never know. Who could it be? The CIA? The KGB? Someone else entirely? But who knew of their connection? Vinciguerra? Belmont? Perhaps they were after U.N.C.L.E., and not Illya himself. In that case, Mr Waverly would learn of his disappearance, and Gaby would look for him. A wave of hope washed over Illya. He could count on Gaby. Perhaps Napoleon would go to their flat, or call Gaby once he realised Illya was not coming.  _ I will be waiting _ . Yes, Napoleon would look for him. He had been the one to send the note, he would not leave Illya. Perhaps he would even come to his rescue, like Illya had done in Paris. But what if Napoleon was in on it, a dark voice whispered in Illya’s mind. It was a possibility Illya refused to believe in. Not Napoleon, the Napoleon he had grown to know and love—  _ but you don’t really know him, do you?  _ In the two weeks since Napoleon had left the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to meet his ex-superiors of the CIA, many things could have happened. What if the CIA had offered to take him back if he betrayed U.N.C.L.E.? Napoleon had seemed rightfully resentful of them, so to turn his back on Illya and Mr Waverly all of a sudden would be strange. Perhaps the CIA had drugged him, or forced him to betray Illya? That brought another problem to light. Why would the CIA want Illya? He was no longer linked to the KGB, he did not know their new pets, their new secrets. He would not be of any help. He would not have been helpful even if he had known anything. And what if it was not Napoleon Illya had seen in the café? No. He had recognised him. It could only be him. He had dreamed of Napoleon enough for the last two weeks to know this back and this hair among hundreds. But Napoleon was not the only black-haired, well-built man in New York. Perhaps Napoleon had been taken too, and they had found a lookalike to trap Illya. The situation made no sense, too many unknown pieces on the chess board, and Illya was starting to regret not resisting capture. He wished the drug would have made him unconscious, at least he would not have been able to torture his mind with endless possibilities.

The car was driving fast. They were probably on the highway, leaving New York. Where were they going? 

Whatever happened, Illya decided that his captors would regret taking him and threatening Napoleon. And if Napoleon was involved, he would regret it more than he had regretted speaking up against the CIA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading, and that you will enjoy the shenanigans to follow :D As always, kudos and comments are really appreciated! I love you dear readers!  
> I will update this fic on the first Tuesday of each month, unless real life gets in the way but fingers crossed it does not!


	2. Gaby’s POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I am sorry it took a bit longer than intended to post. The chapter should have been up last Tuesday, but I was in quite a rush because we had the premiere of our play with my theatre group, so... lots of stress and work, so I could not work on editing this chapter as much as I wanted to. Anyway, enjoy!

When Illya did not come home that evening, Gaby was not worried. He was probably having some fun with Napoleon, and although Gaby had to admit that the idea of the two of them in some positions was rather appealing to her mind’s eye, these thoughts were un-ladylike. Besides, she had work to do. Mr Waverly had given her some maps and files to go over. U.N.C.L.E. had been trying for the past few days to pin-point the location of a secret laboratory in the Black Forest, and had not been successful thus far. This secret laboratory was the only lead they had to what could very well be a powerful international crime organisation that had flown under U.N.C.L.E.’s radar for years. Gaby’s knowledge of Germany was, according to Mr Waverly, the reason why she had to work on that case alongside Section IV. He had even hinted at sending her to the Berlin office for an indefinite amount of time until they solved the case, and as much as Gaby would not mind going back to Berlin at some point, she did not fancy a six or eight months long stakeout, and did her best to try to solve that puzzle. That morning, when Mr Waverly had enquired about Illya’s whereabouts, Gaby had told him about the letter -and of course sir, she had taken all the precautions, the letter had Napoleon’s fingerprints, there had been no hidden microphones or chips in the box. Mr Waverly had laughed, wishing him good luck. So Gaby had truly no reason to worry. She opened a file on the kitchen table and went to make herself a tomato and mustard sandwich. It was barely half past eight, Illya was probably having the best time of his life in some fancy restaurant, eating antipasti and sipping on expensive wine. Damn it, she wanted wine too! Gaby opened the cupboard and served herself a generous amount of whatever wine they kept for special occasions before sitting down to work. 

By midnight, she had almost finished the bottle and was not closer than before to finding the location of the lab or any other clue. She quickly showered and went to bed, but images of the maps in her mind prevented her from sleeping. She would ask Illya’s opinion about this matter when he would come back. 

  
  


The alarm screeched at 7 AM sharp and Gaby’s hand went out of the covers to switch it off, her head still under the pillow. Gaby opened her eyes and fought the urge to go back to sleep. The flat did not smell of coffee, which meant Illya was not home yet. Gaby yawned. He was probably still sleeping, which was understandable with the night he must have had. Perhaps they had not even slept. Gaby climbed into the shower, hoping it would wake her up. She would not expect Illya before the evening, and since Mr Waverly had given him three days off, he might not even show up before the next day. What did she need to do to get days off? Fall in love? Gaby’s laughter filled the apartment. As if that was going to happen anytime soon! Towel tied around her body, she started the coffee machine. She had more important things to do than fall in love today, for example finding the location of that secret laboratory. 

Gaby headed for Headquarters after lunch, the files tucked safely in a briefcase. She needed to talk with some Section IV analysts, was it not their job to go over maps and raid data anyway? She sighed. 

Gaby had barely set a foot in her office that Mrs Gomez, Section IV, Number One called her. It looked like Section IV needed her as much as she needed them. Gaby took the elevator to the section IV level of the building, and was met at the door of Mrs Gomez’s office by Mr Waverly. 

“Good day, Miss Teller. How is Mr Kuryakin doing?” Waverly asked, his hand on the doorknob. 

“He has not come home yet, sir. He is probably having the time of his life.” 

“Good for him,” answered Mr Waverly with a knowing smile. “We both know he needed that. You’ll tell him that I expect him in my office at 10 AM sharp tomorrow.”

Gaby nodded, and Mr Waverly knocked on Mrs Gomez’s door, and they went in. 

Mrs Gomez’s office was not impeccably neat as usual, but littered with maps and charts. Something was definitely wrong .  Before Gaby could ask anything, Mrs Gomez pointed at a series of blurry pictures on her desk, barely taking the time to welcome them in. “Operatives from the Berlin office received these last night, and telecopied them to me. Take a look, sir, Miss Teller.” 

Mr Waverly picked a few photographs, looking at them before handing them to Gaby. She looked more closely at what was unmistakably the results of Napalm being tested, and she did not ask which species the charred carcasses belonged to. Even Mr Waverly seemed ill at ease.

“From the shapes of the mountains on the horizon,” said Mrs Gomez, combing her hand through her short hair, “our analysts determined that the location could be further to the south than we thought it was.” 

“That’d be just our luck,” Mr Waverly said. He looked tired, old.

“Lörrach?” Gaby said under her breath. This landscape did look like it could belong on the border. She had never been there in person though, so it was a lucky guess.

“Most likely,” Mrs Gomez answered. “It’s easy to conceal a laboratory in a city, and they have the countryside and forest nearby for testing. We can start investigating there, but can we afford being wrong?”

“We cannot,” Mr Waverly said. “Should this group attempt to use the Napalm on the population, we have to be ready to strike. We have to be ready. Our next objectives will be locating the laboratory and once this is done, try to find the financial backer.”

“Just wistful thinking on my part,” Gaby said, trying to process all this information, “but what if the backer was Swiss, or French? They are close enough to the border.”

“I’ll get someone in Berlin to check the border records,” Mr Waverly answered. 

Gaby nodded, not knowing whether to feel relieved or not. Napalm. If U.N.C.L.E. failed, people would go up in flames and there was nothing to do about it. If only they knew who this group was, and what they wanted… “They did not issue a warning with the pictures, did they?” she asked.

“Nothing. Not a note, not a word,” Mrs Gomez answered. Out of the three of them, she looked the less concerned. “Perhaps someone in the lab grew themselves a conscience? Or it’s part of a terror build-up. But once we find them, we’ll find their motives too.”

“Only time will tell,” Mr Waverly said. “Which means, Miss Teller, you’re off the case until more results come in. But do take your time off seriously. I want you ready to fly to Berlin at any moment. Should we mount an op, you’re lead operative.”

“Yes sir,” Gaby answered. She almost asked whether or not Illya would be assigned to this mission; but one look at Mr Waverly was enough to deter her. U.N.C.L.E. was stalled. 

Gaby spent the rest of the day tidying up her desk, and left in the late afternoon to prepare her suitcase. She had to be ready to leave at any moment. 

Illya was not yet home when Gaby arrived at their flat. She was not worried, just slightly annoyed that he got to have fun while she had to pack. She went to bed early, and dreamed of forest fires. 

  
  


When she woke up and realised Illya was not home yet -silent flat, no smell of coffee- Gaby felt a pang of worry in her stomach. Perhaps, she thought while fixing herself some breakfast, perhaps Illya had planned on going straight from Napoleon’s place to the U.N.C.L.E. HQ. No need to be alarmed.

It was only half past eight when she took her badge from the receptionist, and she asked about Illya. He had yet to arrive, no need to worry. There was still time .  No need to be alarmed yet. 

At ten, she expected Illya to drop by her office on his way to Mr Waverly, but perhaps he was a bit late, and he would not want to keep the boss waiting. No need to be alarmed, no need to worry. 

At noon, Gaby’s phone rang. 

“Illya?” she answered, hoping she did not sound frantic.

“Not exactly, Miss Teller,” Mr Waverly answered, “although your answer tells me everything I need to know. Meet me in my office, now.”

Gaby all but ran to Mr Waverly’s  office.

By the time she had reached Mr Waverly’s office, Gaby’s mind was in a state of total panic. She should have worried. She should have known. She should have— it was her fault Illya had disappeared. She should have come with him to meet Napoleon. She should never have left him alone. 

Mr Waverly must have sensed her distress, as he made her sit down and served her a glass of brandy, making sure she had finished it before asking: “When have you last seen Mr Kuryakin?”

“Monday morning, just before he left for his meeting with Napoleon,” Gaby answered, feeling the guilt and shame tear at her. 

“And he did not come home?”

Gaby shook her head. She definitely needed another drink. “He was off duty, so I did not worry,” she answered, trying to justify herself.

“Don’t beat yourself for it. I should not have allowed him to go. If anyone’s fault it’s mine. And perhaps we are worrying for nothing, but it’s uncharacteristic of Mr Kuryakin not to be on time.”

“Something happened to him,” Gaby mumbled, “I should have known something would happen.”

“Let us hope he is not in danger. He might be late, it’s not a good thing to jump to conclusions. Although I too, think something might have happened. Now, if only we had a way to contact either Mr Kuryakin or Mr Solo…”

“Wait, you don’t have any way to contact Napoleon?” Gaby shouted, projecting her anger onto Mr Waverly instead of herself. “You trusted him on a mission with Illya without even having his information?”

“Now, now, Miss Teller, I am not stupid. I highly doubt Mr Solo’s information and address is in the phone book, but I know Mr Solo, and I know of at least three flats he used this year. He is an expert in hiding and running away, and although I trust our men can find him easily, I don’t know where he is at the moment, and where he would have taken Mr Kuryakin for this… date of theirs. What we can do, though, is check.”

With a press of a few buttons, Mr Waverly projected a map of New York on the wall of his office. A red dot was flashing close to the bottom right corner of the map, in an area Gaby was unfamiliar with.

“His emergency tracker is still emitting,” Mr Waverly said. “Mr Slate is closest to this sector, I’ll dispatch him immediately and tell him to investigate.”

“Sir—” Gaby protested. She  _ had  _ to go. Mr Waverly raised a hand, cutting her off.

“I know, Miss Teller,” he said. “Take a car and join him. I want the both of you to report to me over R/T as soon as you find something.”

Gaby drove at an illegal speed until she reached the location. It was a conglomerate of warehouses by the docks. It was highly unlikely that Illya was still there, but if there was even the slightest chance… she had to try. Perhaps she was worrying too much, but then so would Mr Waverly, and he did not usually worry for nothing.

Gaby parked the car and jumped out. Mark Slate’s motorbike was already there, parked hastily against a rusty shipping container, its owner nowhere to be seen. The surroundings were strangely calm, not a shadow to be seen. Gaby walked to the entrance of the closest warehouse. The fading writings above the door indicated it belonged to a Mexican shipping company. Gaby took the tracking device out of her pocket and fiddled with its settings, tuning it to the frequency of Illya’s transmitter. The tracking device started beeping, and the sound became louder when she opened the door.

The warehouse was mostly empty, save for a few dusty crates and old lifting equipment. Whoever they were, the shipping company had not used this warehouse in years. Gaby looked at the floor at her feet. A thick layer of dust was covering it, no way Illya had been there without leaving footprints. No way Mark had been there without leaving footprints. She went back outside, only to find Mark leaning against her car.

“This place looks abandoned,” he said, finishing a cigarette. “Hi Gaby. Waverly told me what happened, I am sorry.”

“I should have noticed something was wrong earlier,” Gaby answered, the guilt still gnawing at her. “Did you find anything?”

“I just looked around. There are no obvious tracks or anything, perhaps a car drove there a few days ago, but it could be older. I saw a pile of trash behind the warehouse you were in, might be worth investigating.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Gaby nodded. Any lead was better than none at all. “The tracker seems to indicate that the transmitter is close, perhaps it’s behind the warehouse.” 

Gaby let Mark lead the way, the tracker still beeping. Behind the warehouse was a high pile of debris and trash bags, some torn open, some closed. A feeling of dread crept up Gaby’s back, and for an instant she imagined that Illya was there, crushed under the rubble. No. Not Ilya. He was too strong, too stubborn. The beeping of the tracker was not comforting her at all, and they started digging through the debris. They found nothing at first, until, a few minutes later, Gaby pulled a pair of shoes from under a foul-smelling trash bag. The tracker was going crazy. It was not just any pair of shoes, but Illya’s shoes. Not him, not a body, just his usual pair of shoes, with the transmitter safely concealed in the sole. Gaby was at the same time relieved and terrified. Illya was not dead, _yet._ But he was not there, and something bad had happened to him. He had been abducted. Otherwise, why would they have gotten rid of his shoes? Either they had guessed about the transmitter, or— 

“Hey, look at that, isn’t it Kuryakin’s jacket?” Mark was holding a trash bag open. Illya’s jacket, shirt and trousers had been bundled inside it. “It won’t be easy to escape naked, but that’s not gonna stop him.”

Gaby resisted the urge to take the clothes. She did not want to risk messing up with any potential evidence. These would have to be taken back to HQ for analysis. Quickly, Gaby and Mark tore the other bags open, just in case there was something else of interest, but found nothing. They went back to the car and Gaby called HQ over the R/T while Mark put the shoes and the bag with the clothes on the backseat.

“I have to go back to April,” he said, closing the car’s door. “We are still on stakeout for who-knows-how-long, and I’d rather not miss our target. It’d be my luck if he shows up when I am away.”

Gaby could not remember what this operation was about, but she did not care much. Still, she smiled at him. “I’ll bring these back to HQ, good luck for the stakeout.”

“Thanks Gaby! Now go and recover Kuryakin before something happens!” 

Mark’s motorbike disappeared in a cloud of dust, and Gaby followed shortly after. Time was of the essence.

The clothes and shoes had been sent to Section IV for analysis as soon as Gaby had arrived at HQ. The results would not be in until at least tomorrow -any potential hair, fingerprint, or suspicious mark had to be tested, then run through U.N.C.L.E. computers to find if there was any known match. Gaby, in the meantime, was in Mr Waverly’s office, nursing a glass of brandy to help her nerves.

“The items were either planted here to deceive us,” Mr Waverly said, helping himself to another drink, “or Mr Kuryakin was indeed taken there… but there was no sign of Mr Solo, nothing?”

“Nothing no,” Gaby answered. She sounded, and was, bitter. “We checked the area and found no other clue. Of course it had to be a dead end—”

“A dead end?” Mr Waverly asked, his voice carrying an almost amused undertone. “On the contrary, Miss Teller. It tells us that the chances that Mr Kuryakin is no longer in New York are rather high. These warehouses are close to the docks, and less than ten minutes away from a private airport. What we do not yet know is whether Mr Solo was taken alongside him, if he has nothing to do with this, or if he is involved in a less pleasant manner.”

All of this made sense, Gaby had to admit it. But she hated the thought that Illya had  _ just _ been taken away, just like that. Like any other hostage. “Sir—” But what she hated even more was the thought that Napoleon could have orchestrated it. “You don’t really think…”

“As unpleasant as it is, we must not rule out the possibility that Mr Solo is not innocent.”

“But Illya saved his life,” Gaby said, and she knew as soon as the words left her mouth that it might not have mattered so much. What they had lived together might not mean so much to Napoleon. She felt anger rise within her at the thought.

“He did, and I hope I am mistaken,” Mr Waverly answered. He sounded more resigned than angry. “But Mr Solo has many debts to pay, and more enemies than I probably know of. He could very well have accepted to sell Illya for protection or to pay off someone.”

“If he did that…” Gaby was properly furious now. She finished her glass in one go. “He’ll die by my hand.”

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that.” Mr Waverly patted her shoulder before filling her glass again. “Now, what do you think about paying a visit to our CIA friends?”

“Can we trust them?” Gaby was taken aback. Did Mr Waverly think the CIA was involved? Why ask them? What if they had asked Napoleon to abduct Illya?

“Trust? You want trust, Miss Teller? In our line of work? I would not trust Sanders to open the door for me, but he was Mr Solo’s handler, and we are not openly enemies.”

“But he has no reason to help us!”

“Doesn’t he?” Mr Waverly asked with a mischievous smile. “On the contrary, Miss Teller. I think his superiors would prefer not to involve the CIA in the case of a missing agent… moreover a missing agent from a neutral organisation. Mr Solo is a stain on Sanders’s ledger. Now, I am not saying Sanders will be happy to help us, but it does not hurt to try and see if they, at least, know where Mr Solo is.”

  
  


That Sanders had agreed to meet them at such short notice surprised Gaby. It was suspicious, but Mr Waverly did not seem to be worried about it. They were now in an anonymous office lost in the middle of New York, and listening to her boss exchange pleasantries with a despicable man like Sanders was not helping Gaby’s nerves. She was, to say the least, not at ease with the situation. But if Sanders had any information that could help them to find Illya… she had to be patient, and give the man a chance. And so she listened to Mr Waverly explain the situation in as few words as possible to Sanders. 

“This is very unfortunate, Mr Waverly, very unfortunate,” Sanders answered once Mr Waverly had finished explaining. “Solo told me his… wish to meet with Mr Kuryakin. I tried to dissuade him. For Mr Kuryakin’s sake of course. It doesn’t surprise me Solo did not heed my advice.”

Mr Waverly was about to speak again, but Sanders got up from his chair and said, with an almost smug smile:

“But you see, Solo is no longer our problem. He did surrender himself to us, as he knew we wanted to know what happened in Europe, and he was strangely cooperative. We released him afterwards.”

“Well… It could become your problem very soon,” Mr Waverly answered, and Gaby knew from his tone of voice that he was confident he had the upper hand. “We have reason to believe Mr Solo might have information regarding Mr Kuryakin’s vanishing.”

“Oh.” Sanders seemed annoyed for an instant. Could it be that Mr Waverly had been right? Gaby hoped so. “Well then, I will not prevent you from searching Solo. And I would not be surprised if he brought trouble to Mr Kuryakin.”

“You have no idea where Mr Solo could be?” Mr Waverly asked then. If only it was so simple, Gaby thought. Well she hoped Sanders knew, but was not overly hopeful either.

“No more than you do,” Sanders answered. “If we searched him, we could find him, but we have no reason to actually search him, and I doubt he came back to his old flat. Perhaps, as a goodwill gesture, I can give you a list of establishments Solo used to visit. You might want to start there.” He pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Alison? Bring me a copy of list number XCS0873.”

A few minutes later, a woman delivered a thick file to Sanders. She was gone in an instant, and Gaby wondered if she was only some sort of assistant or secretary or if she was an agent. She had seen her face though, and would remember it should they meet again under less friendly circumstances. Sanders looked through the file, then handed it to Mr Waverly. “You’re free to keep it, in case Solo was stupid enough to return to any of these places.”

  
  


“Don’t you think Sanders might be lying?” Gaby asked as soon as they were back at the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, out of the CIA’s hearing range.

“He has no reason to,” Mr Waverly answered, putting the file on his desk. “Illya is of no interest to him, I suppose. And even if the CIA is involved… we cannot prove it now, and they are far more powerful than us. Let us find Mr Solo first.”

He was right, of course. Gaby knew she should not worry too much or jump to conclusions too quickly. She took the file and started to look through it, trying to remember names and addresses. 

“Besides,” Mr Waverly added, taking the file away from her, “I cannot allow you to investigate Mr Solo.”

“Sir!” Gaby shouted. How could he say that? Illya was gone, and she  _ needed _ to find Solo, she needed to find Illya. 

“I am sorry,” answered Mr Waverly, sounding not sorry at all. “I know Mr Kuryakin is your partner, but you have more important matters to take care of. Should we find clues as to where Mr Kuryakin is, you would be the first to know. And you would be part of the rescue team. But I need you to be ready to leave for Berlin at any moment.”

Gaby’s hands were shaking. She was furious. At the moment, she did not care about Napalm factories, she did not care about the potential victims when Illya was in danger. Especially not when she should have noticed earlier that Illya was in danger, and not lost so much time. Mr Waverly must have sensed this, as he added, taking the file away from Gaby:

“I ask you now, Miss Teller. Do not attempt to search for Mr Kuryakin or Mr Solo on your own. And this is a direct order.”

  
  


A direct order. Of course. Gaby chomped at the bit for the whole afternoon, having written down the few names she remembered from Sanders’s file. A direct order. She had done research as discreetly as possible, and the names on the lists were mostly high end -though not reputable- clubs and bars. A direct order. It would not be the first time she did not obey. Gaby left HQ late enough so that it did not seem suspicious, and, once home, after a quick shower, she prepared herself for the night. 

At half past nine, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. She looked perfect, from the high heels to the concealed weapons to her black dress. She called a taxi, and headed out for the first club on Sanders’s list.  _ Do not attempt to search for Mr Kuryakin or Mr Solo on your own…  _ A direct order? She was not going to attempt, she was going to succeed. She would find Napoleon before sunrise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, next one will be up in a month :D  
> Feel free to leave kudos, and of course to comment, I love reading your thoughts and opinions on my fics!


	3. Napoleon's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should have been up yesterday, but I was quite busy with a tabletop rpg session, so I completely forgot it. Anyway, many thanks to my beta amethyst for her amazing job and enjoy!

Napoleon had arrived at the café at eight. He was so stupid. He had finished his coffee and ordered another. He had thought Illya would come, the fool! Illya had been nice to him, yes, nicer than anyone had been in years. He had been different. Napoleon had waited until ten o’clock, he had even ordered a third coffee, hoping Illya was different enough to show up. Perhaps he should not have sat with his back to the road, but he had been too nervous. At nine, when Illya had not been there, he had been afraid to see him in every tall man’s silhouette, afraid to get his hopes up and face the fact that Illya might not come.

Napoleon walked all the way back to his flat, trusting his feet to take him home when his mind could not. 

He was not bitter, no.

He was not angry at Illya, it was not Illya’s fault. He had already done so much for Napoleon… but Napoleon would have wanted to prove Sanders wrong, to prove him that people wanted him. Cared for him. That he was not alone. But he was alone. All alone in his flat. 

Napoleon did not cry. A part of him wanted to, bury his head in his pillow and cry his heart out, but that part of himself was locked in a deep pit within his heart. Locked by his training, his years in the CIA. Crying would bring him nowhere. It would grant him temporary solace, nothing more. Napoleon did not want solace right now. He served himself a brandy. He wanted to… go back in time, and never invite Illya to that café. 

_“Meet me in the café where it all began, the morning after you come back, at nine. I will be waiting.”_ As if Illya would have come! Unless… unless Illya had been afraid the message was a trap? Well, Gaby would have looked at every inch of the box for bugs and chips. And she would have told Illya it was not a trap. Now that he thought about it, Napoleon could always phone Gaby -she liked him, right? Perhaps she would give him news of Illya, perhaps Illya had told her why he had not come… perhaps she would still wish to be his friend? Perhaps, all was not lost. Oh, who was he kidding? His life was not over because Illya had chosen not to pursue anything with him. He was… free. Sanders had not done anything to him during the last two weeks, nothing more than having junior agents interrogate him. Even the drugs they used… basic. Desinhibiting so-called truth serums, nothing worth his time. And when Sanders had been sure Napoleon had not leaked any secrets to foreign criminals, he had let him go. He had let him walk out of the door, just like that. Goodbye Mr Solo, your talents have been wasted. Goodbye Sanders. Of course, Napoleon knew that the CIA would always keep an half-closed eye on him, but he was officially free. In the best case scenario, he could have walked up to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters and asked Mr Waverly for a job. Napoleon poured himself another brandy and drank it, laughing at his own stpudity. As if Mr Waverly would hire him. And even if he did, would Illya want to work close to Napoleon? Did he want to work in the same space as Illya, so close and yet unable to— He threw the empty tumbler at the wall, the glass breaking and falling at his feet. 

_“I do not want to work with you.”_ He would forever remember the first words Illya had said to him.

Why did he have to get attached? That was a beginner’s mistake. Napoleon was used to seduction, he had been an expert at it, _wasted talent_ indeed. It had been supposed to be a short, simple mission. 

A short, simple mission, and then it all went wrong. 

Illya and him had started on the wrong foot, but there had been _something_ about Illya, about that thick, icy wall he hid behind. _“I do not want to work with you.”_ Napoleon had wanted to play with him, infuriate him to get a reaction. Play with his disgust, his distrust. It was easier to deal with it this way. _I’ll give him a real reason not to work with me._ He had wanted to show Illya his own twisted reflection, but then the mission had gone too well. They had barely trusted each other, but Illya had trusted him enough to let him lead the masquerade and do his job. And Napoleon, he had trusted Illya with his very naked back.

The mission had been a success, and that should have been it. The usual tight-lipped banter, and it would not have been the last time Mr Waverly called him for a mission. Thank you Mr Solo, goodbye Mr Waverly. Why did he do it? He had had no choice… no right choice. Mr Waverly had helped him when no one else had. But Illya… Illya had made him feel like an agent again, for an instant. And Napoleon had realised he had enjoyed working with Illya.

 _“Working with you was not as terrible as I thought it would be Kuryakin.”_ His hand on Illya’s shoulder, in Mr Waverly’s office. Sincere words, wrapped in ugly paper, he had not wanted to frighten Illya. Oh, how stupid he had been! He had not even wanted Illya to know his real name, and a few days later, he had been alone, like today. Alone in his flat, alone with himself and his stupid feelings. Illya was different. A damned good agent, a professional. The first person he had completely trusted in years. Even Mr Waverly, for all the good he had brought to the world… Napoleon could not fully trust him. It came with command. Men like Mr Waverly, one day, they had no choice but to give the wrong order. The order agents like Napoleon could not follow. Double-thinking mind games and need-to-know basis, they lived in a mausoleum of solitude where _trust_ had a whole other meaning than watching a partner’s back, and Napoleon knew that better than anyone else. Illya, on the other hand… Illya had been worried about him, or so Gaby had told him, and he believed her. Illya had, after all, disobeyed Mr Waverly’s orders. He had taken risks for Napoleon, to save him. It had been an eternity no one had cared for him like that. 

Illya had cared for him. Illya had found him important enough to risk death and disgrace to come for him. No wonder Napoleon had fallen in love with him. 

Napoleon shook his head. There was no use brooding over the past. His life was not over. He was free, had nothing to do, nowhere to go. Napoleon looked at the broken glass at his feet, crushing some under the heel of his shoe. He took the bottle of brandy and drank straight from it until his throat hurt. It was not noon yet, the best monday morning of his fucking life. Perhaps, with enough alcohol, he would fall asleep for some time and stop thinking about Illya.

Napoleon woke up with a splitting headache and no idea how much time had passed. A quick glance at the window told him it was night. With great effort he went to the bathroom. With the precision of a robot, he shaved, showered, brushed his teeth. The water helped clear up his mind, and the events of the morning came back to him in full colors. Putting a clean suit on, Napoleon came to the conclusion that he needed more than a bottle of brandy to stop thinking about Illya. To stop remembering how he had waited for Illya, and hoped Illya would come, even late. Napoleon found his watch -he did not remember taking it off, but it was on the coffee table- it was half past eleven. Not even the next day. He sat down on the couch. He would have taken Illya for lunch at a nice restaurant, and they would have come to his flat afterwards. They would have sat on this very couch, knees touching. They would have talked all afternoon long, about the mission that had brought them together. They would have talked until either Napoleon or Illya had nothing uninteresting left to say, and would have kissed the other. 

Napoleon closed his eyes. He wanted to indulge in the fantasy. He wanted to imagine Illya, Illya who would have wanted it as much as him, Illya, so beautiful. Illya, who would have loved him. So different. It would have changed nothing, it would not have given him his job back, it would not have turned back time. But perhaps, with Illya by his side, he would have knocked on Mr Waverly’s door, and asked for an interview. Perhaps, Mr Waverly would have accepted to give him this second chance. He would have been back in the field, and he would have been so good at it. U.N.C.L.E. had ethics. U.N.C.L.E. was not the CIA. Oh, how Napoleon would have loved to go on a mission with Gaby, to learn to work with her. She was such a smart, powerful and kind agent. Oh, how he would have liked to charm each and every U.N.C.L.E. employee with his natural smile, but Illya would know he belonged exclusively to him. Mr Waverly would not mind of course, and his life would start all over again. 

He would have won. 

Won against Sanders, against the CIA.

Won against anyone who abused him, took advantage of his fall from grace.

He would have had it all.

Napoleon opened his eyes again. Life was unfair, he had had his chance and wasted it. He had tried, and had lost. He wanted to rip the fantasy from his mind, burn it in that useless fireplace in the living room. It would only hurt him to imagine this future. Taken by a sudden impulse, Napoleon pocketed a large amound of cash, put his shoes on and left his flat.

It was a mistake.

He took the subway, fists balled in his pockets. It was a stupid mistake. 

He knew the way by heart, his blood knew it. He would regret it.

He knew he should turn back. He knocked on the door of the very private club. 

It was a mistake. It was worse than stupid. No one was forcing him, what comfort did he think he would find? Too many known faces, sneering at him, or was it his mind’s eye mocking him? He had promised himself he would never come back there.

He had no reason to come back anymore.

He had no other place to go. 

The door opened to an anonymous security guard who ushered him in. Nothing had changed, from the sleek decor to the smell. This place was like him. He fitted right in, even though he had come to hate it. Perhaps he hated it because he fitted so well in it. 

Napoleon chose not to recognise anyone in the dancing, chilling or drinking crowd. They would come to him if they wanted to, sons and daughters of millionaires and politicians. He would not fight them. He went to the back of the room, and sat at a small table. The lights gave the room an eerie glow, the music was good, low enough that Napoleon could not recognise the band. Not that he would have cared anyway. A minute had not yet passed that a barmaid approached him. 

“The usual I suppose, Mr Solo?”

Napoleon nodded. The usual. She smiled and left, coming back a few minutes later with a bottle of very expensive whisky and poured him a glass. He paid and left a large tip. “John is with customers upstairs. He will be there in fifteen minutes,” she said. Napoleon nodded. She left, leaving the bottle on the table. He had fifteen minutes to turn back and go home. He did not have to do it. He had not craved the drugs in months. No, he would not turn back. There was only one way to stop his brain from thinking, stop the memories and the fantasy. 

It was just one time. 

One time, to forget Illya.

Just one more time since he had come clean. 

Napoleon waited, and poured himself a second, then a third glass. John. Drug dealer for the rich and pretty. Napoleon despised him, but more than him, he hated the politicians and the CIA that used his kind to destroy lives. John was nothing but a businessman after all. Napoleon used to spy, steal and kill for a living, who was he to judge? Neither of them would be saved in the end. 

Napoleon poured himself a fourth glass, and watched the dancers. At last, John came. He sat down opposite of Napoleon, and without a word opened a briefcase. 

“I was not expecting you,” John said, his voice quite level.

Napoleon did not answer. There was no need to. This was business, nothing else. He slid a handful of bills on the table, and John counted them, a knowing smirk on his lips. Napoleon would regret it. He was already regretting it, but it was better than facing the regret and the fantasy. A second chance… no one would find him now. Not Sanders, not Mr Waverly. They knew the address, but they did not care. He could stay here for a day, for a week, as long as he could pay. And he could pay. He was not sure he ever wanted to leave.

Illya could have had it all, but it was too late now. Napoleon would not seek him out. He was not that desperate. Was he? 

John produced a small phial of liquid and cracked open the package of a syringe. There is still time to back down, thought Napoleon, except he would not. He rolled up his left sleeve. What would Illya think of him now? 

No one was forcing him. No excuses. Napoleon took the syringe, his hand moving on its own accord. He barely felt the needle pierce his skin. Sanders would be proud of him. Wasted talent, so what?

“You know where to find me if you need more,” John said before leaving, and Napoleon slowly nodded. More. Would he want more? 

Would he crave more?

Did he even want to leave this place?

“Hello handsome. Wanna dance?”

Napoleon looked at the man who had spoken to him. _Not Illya._ He nodded, and the stranger took his hand, leading him to the dance floor. 

They started dancing, the music flowing around them. Napoleon was too slow and the world around him was a blur. He was feeling hands on his waist, on his shoulders, but knew he would not remember the face of his partner come morning. He did not care. He would have wished for the stranger to be Illya, but his mind’s eye would not do him the favour of conjuring the fantasy. He did not deserve it anyway. Did this stranger know him? Had he approached him because he was intoxicated, in no position to say no? He did not care anyway. That was exactly why he had come here. 

They danced, and Napoleon knew he was neither charming nor graceful, but his partner did not seem to mind. 

Partner. Illya and him could have been partners. It was better to think of this man as a stranger. Illya was not a stranger anymore. 

They danced, bodies pressed against each other, the stranger’s breath hot against his neck, danced for a long time, until Napoleon’s head was spinning. Unless that was a side effect of the drug and the alcohol. The stranger whispered words into his ear, and Napoleon answered, yes, let’s go upstairs. Yes, why not. That was why he had come here. 

He would forget everything anyway. 

Napoleon let the stranger lead him through corridors and stairs, and he felt himself fall onto a matress. Another stranger entered the room. Fast words that made no sense, a light being switched on, colors dancing in front of his eyes. 

He felt someone unbutton his shirt, and did not resist. He had not come here to resist, had he? He had come here to forget, to regret and to make himself pay for hoping. One of the strangers kissed him, thin lips and biting teeth, and Napoleon responded. Illya could have had it all, and more if he had asked Napoleon. The second stranger’s hands were on him now, and Napoleon felt lips on the back of his neck. More words. A bottle pressed against his lips, the burning taste of vodka, liquid down his chest. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed. The world around him was fading to black, and he felt himself lean into the arms of one of the strangers. He did not fight the loss of consciousness, and passed out soon after. _Illya_ —

_—we could have had it all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, feel free to comment your thoughts and opinions below and see you on December 8th for the next one!


	4. Illya’s POV

Pain in his neck. Pain in his legs too, as if he had slept for too long in a space too small for his body. Illya tried to move his legs. They were not restrained. He tried to move his arms, his hands. Not restrained either. Beneath his back, a hard surface. He opened his eyes. 

A light. 

A circular light on the wall was the first thing Illya saw. It was casting its white glow through a dirty glass protection, not even bright enough to properly light the room. Illya stood up. His legs were complaining but it did not matter much to him at the moment.

_Where am I?_

_A cell?_

Now that he was more awake, Illya could clearly see that it was indeed a cell. It was small, he could easily cross it in three steps, and the cot was too small for him. No window, of course not.

 _The fools! They think they can contain me in a simple cell!_ He was in his underwear, and they had even taken away his shoes. He grabbed his wrist. _My watch!_ They would pay for this. Each and every one of them. Illya punched the wall, blood on his knuckles, but he did not feel the pain.

They had taken his watch. His. Watch.

He pounded at the door in blind rage, the sound of his fists against the iron.

When he finally calmed down, Illya started looking around, feeling each stone of the wall, the mortar between them, the line at the junction between the wall and the floor, the wall and the ceiling. He took the mattress off from the cot, and moved the cot, looking underneath. No bugs, no hidden camera, nothing. That was a good thing. He went to the door. It was a strong security door, made of iron, and the only noticeable feature was a small slit -probably for food- at the base. No bugs here either. Illya went back to the cot and sat down on the hard mattress. His shoulder still hurt, and he suppressed the urge to try to break the door again. He was not that stupid. He would wait for his captors to open the door -they would, they always did- and he would overpower them and escape then. For a second, he thought about breaking the light -he could use parts of the glass protection as a weapon- but he did not know if he wanted to be stuck in the dark just yet, and something told him that it was perhaps a smarter idea to wait and see who his captors were.

For the first time since he had woken up, Illya wondered how much time had passed since he had been lifted. He was not even that hungry yet... so it could not be more than a day.

Illya looked around him for another clue about time. Since there was no window, there was no telling day from night. It was dark under the door, but then whatever was outside was probably lit by electricity also. Illya also had no clue about where the cell was. It could have been in Europe, in the US, all the way down to South Africa even. Perhaps, the accent of his captors would tell; but the man who had spoken to him in the car had seemed to be American. Perhaps, Illya thought, they were two streets away from the U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. That was the catch with being held isolated between four walls. He could have been in a shipping container on the banks of the Thames or on the Pacific Ocean for all he knew. Well, being on ship would make his escape more difficult, but not impossible. Still he preferred Europe or New York if he had a choice. Perhaps he was in Paris? The cell looked different then the one he had found Napoleon in but Illya’s memories of it were blurry. He remembered Napoleon and not much else. 

He imagined Napoleon, back when he had been Miss Belmont’s prisoner. The cells had been different in Paris, but now he wondered how Napoleon had felt. He was still mesmerized at the thought that Napoleon had not betrayed them when it would have spared him pain and a certain death. Napoleon was - _had been-_ a professional. Illya did not want to believe that Napoleon could have been in on his kidnapping. Was it all a big scheme? Had he betrayed U.N.C.L.E. back in France? Had he played along, only for Miss Belmont and Victoria to have their revenge now? He had led them straight to U.N.C.L.E. and Illya? It was a possibility he could not rule out, even though he wanted to.

But oh, he wanted to believe that Napoleon would notice his absence, and look for him. Fantasies of this kind were dangerous, but before he could stop himself, Illya saw Napoleon sitting at the café in his mind’s eye. Checking his watch, half past nine, ordering a second coffee, ten o’clock. Would he have thought Illya was not interested in him after all? Illya preferred not to think about this possibility, about the look of betrayal in Napoleon’s eyes… no. Napoleon would have known something was wrong. He had means to contact Gaby, and would ask her if anything had happened to Illya. Gaby would be surprised they were not together, and they would team up and find him. Bust that door open, kill anyone between them and him.

Illya felt an unfamiliar warmth in his chest at the thought of his best friend and his… Napoleon teaming up to save him. He despised being saved -he did not need being saved- but to think that they cared for him… he would never admit it out loud, and never ever to Gaby or Napoleon, but he liked that idea. That was one of the good things that had come out of working for U.N.C.L.E.: he had learned to accept that people might care for him, and that there was nothing wrong with this. He would have never accepted it back when he was with the KGB. They did not want their agents to care. But Mr Waverly, Mr Waverly was different. Illya had doubted him, with reason, but he was a good man. He would notice something was wrong too, and make finding Illya a top priority. Yes, people cared for him. And these people would find him. Whoever had captured him had better be aware of this fact, and be prepared for the storm to come.

Illya smiled. It would be even better if he met the rescue team halfway. He was better than them anyway -unless they were led by Gaby herself. He had to start thinking of his escape plan. Or perhaps not. Each time he thought about something, he brushed it off. Find out which language they spoke? He would not talk to them anyway, and he would find out in which country he was, when he would be outside. For who did they work? He would find out when he escaped and killed whoever was behind this. This situation was not even worth of being compared to a game of chess. It required no thinking.

Everything was so simple in his mind when Illya thought about it that way, but it was a good thing. It would help him keep his fighting spirit intact, and that was already a victory in and of itself. 

Now, he also had to find a way to count time, trust his internal clock or wait for his captors to bring food. He had a feeling they would not be so generous as to feed him more than once a day. Perhaps even less. Illya stood up from the cot and looked around, searching for something that could help him. A pebble would do, anything that could mark the stone. He looked underneath the cot and touched the wooden frame, careful not to get splinters in his fingers. The last thing he needed now was an infected wound, even a small one. After some pulling and twisting, he managed to tear a nail from the cot, and used it to scratch a mark on the stone near his head. Day One. Perhaps a Tuesday. 

One of the problems that came with being captured and locked up in a small cell such as this one was that, after some time -in Illya’s case, two hours after he had etched the mark on the wall- one grew bored. Illya was lying on the cot, his eyes burning holes in the ceiling. _I could try to sleep._ He did not want to be vulnerable. What if his captors decided to pay him a visit when he slept, what if his instincts did not wake him up in time to fight? He was not even that tired yet, but sleeping was a good way to pass time.

Two more hours passed, and Illya’s thoughts kept going back to Napoleon. Illya did not want that. He did not need that at the moment, these dangerous thoughts. He closed his eyes. 

Illya woke up with a start to a loud noise, someone banging on the metal door. What? Was someone trying to break the door? He sat on the cot, and waited for a few minutes, but nothing, no more sound came through.

He sighed and lied back down, closing his eyes. How long had he slept? A few minutes? Hours? At least he did not remember any dreams.

That same sound. Could it come from his mind? Was it a twisted dream? He had started fantasizing about being rescued, was he paying the price for it? He closed his eyes again, and rolled over to face the wall. He waited, trying not to fall asleep, listening to the silence outside.

That same sound. _Again._ It had to be real. He stood up and sat with his back to the door. It was not the best position in case someone came in -it would be harder to attack them this way- but perhaps he would hear better.

After some time spent listening, the metal of the door cold against his cheek, Illya fell asleep.

Again, the sound. It echoed through the metal of the door, waking him up with a start. _Oh no._ Illya knew what it was. Not only was the sound real, but it was deliberate. Whoever was behind that door had a way of knowing when he fell asleep, and would bang on the door to wake him up. That was vicious. That was more than vicious, it was dangerous. Illya was strong, but he was not superhuman. He had to sleep. how long would this go on? He would not beg -would they even hear him?- but his mind would abandon him at one point. He had seen what the lack of sleep did to people. He had seen prisoners being reduced to barely human creatures, half dead, mad. He would not allow his captors to do this to him.

He would break free before they had the time to drive him to madness. And now, now was the time to test them.

Illya walked back to the cot and lied down, arms behind his head. He closed his eyes, and slowed his breathing. He started counting, one, two, three, ten, thirty seconds. Five minutes later, that sound again. He opened his eyes and sat down. He would have preferred being wrong. Still, this meant his captors were serious. Not that he would give them any credit, but he had to admit they either knew what they were doing, or they had the right advisors.

_Who are they?_

_What do they want?_

For the first time since waking up in that cell, Illya started to think seriously about this question. Why had they kidnapped him? These people, who had followed him, recognised him, were they after him personally, or after U.N.C.L.E.?

Illya tried to piece up what little clues he had. Firstly, they were professionals. At least one cell with such a strong door, the car, the drugs, that was not the mark of amateurs or small time criminals. Secondly, they had means of watching him, and good ones. Illya would have found something otherwise. Thirdly, they had known he would be at the café with Napoleon. Which meant they were closer to him that he would have liked to.

Once again, his thoughts went back to Napoleon. _Are you involved? I could not risk you being shot to find out, could I?_

They could try to prevent Illya from sleeping, they could torture him, he would fight. He was stronger than them. But if Napoleon was involved, if when the door opened, Napoleon stood behind that door, Illya knew he would hesitate. Half a second that would be his demise.

_Just like in Paris... did you trust me still? When I went in with Vinciguerra and Belmont? What did you think then, when you saw me?_

_Did you feel betrayed? Or did you trust me, when you had no reason to?_

_You were in that cell because of Mr Waverly. Because of me. And yet you did not betray me._

_Would you betray me now?_ Illya remembered all too well what he had thought of Napoleon at first. A whore. Amoral. _“I don't want to work with you.”_

 _“No one ever asks me if I want or not to do things,”_ Napoleon had answered. Illya would always remember this answer. He had tried not to think about it back then, but he could not ignore the truth behind it. Napoleon had not been given the choice to work with Illya on this mission. But when he had been captured and tortured, he had made the choice not to betray them. Not to betray Illya, who had not even been civil to him. Could this Napoleon betray him now? Illya did not want to think about it. He loved Napoleon.

He had fallen for this strength, this loyalty. Had he fallen too far?

When Illya woke up the next time, he was hungry. He felt as if he had slept a long time. Why had they not prevented him from sleeping again, he did not know, but he was not going to complain. Someone outside switched the light off. Did whoever guarded this place switch the light on and off depending on the time of day? Was it a technique to confuse him? He carved a second mark next to the first one. _I miss my watch._

As hours passed, Illya was getting really hungry, and cold. Not that it should bother him. He had been trained for this type of situation. The cold in the cell was nothing compared to what he had had to endure in his KGB training. The hunger was nothing compared to what he had had to endure after his father’s demise.

He smiled internally. Living in the United States had not softened him, and if his captors thought it had, they were in for a bad surprise. They did not know him.

At last, a new sound. The slit opened in the door, just big enough to let a piece of bread and a plastic glass through.

Illya drank the water -and mentally slapped himself, what if it was drugged?!- and ate a piece of the bread. It tasted like sawdust. He spat it out. It was not the smartest decision either, he needed to eat if he wanted to have strength and energy to fight his captors, but then again, if he did not eat, he was already winning against them. He would show them that he was stronger than hunger.

Stronger than the cold.

Stronger than sleep deprivation.

Stronger than them, whoever they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, as always kudos and comments are very much appreciated, and feel free to tell me what you think ;) Next chapter will be Gaby's POV and will be published next month... so next year! Let us hope 2021 is more merciful than 2020 was, and in the meantime stay safe <3


	5. Gaby's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the new chapter :D

Somewhere in New York, a clock struck five in the morning. This… club, it was the second place on Sander’s list. It was almost empty at this hour, a few dancers moving in tune with the slow music and a few more people sitting at the table in the back. Gaby was surprised there were even still people there. She was also surprised it had not been harder to get in the club, but either the security guard was bored or he had found her pretty enough to enter the club without being a regular member. She preferred it that way, keeping her U.N.C.L.E. ID tucked away in a secret pocket of her dress. She would use her authority only as a last resort. Mr Waverly would learn about her involvement sooner or later, but Gaby preferred for it to happen when he would no longer be able to prevent her from finding Illya. She would find Napoleon. She would find clues. She would prove him that she was necessary for this mission. And she would  _ never _ abandon Illya.

“Can I help you?” The question startled Gaby. She had not noticed the waitress standing beside her. Gaby flashed her a smile.

“Actually yes. Have you seen a man tonight, white, roughly six feet, in his mid thirties, charming smile, blue eyes, dark hair?”

“That’s not an usual order, Miss,” answered the waitress with a smile of her own. “Don’t you know more about this gentleman of yours? That description could fit many of our regulars.”

Did Napoleon use his real name when he went here? Probably not, thought Gaby, unless… well she could always try.

“His name is Napoleon Solo.”

Something changed in the waitress’s smile, and Gaby picked it up before she could hide it. So she knew something.

“Would you follow me please, Miss?” the waitress asked.

Gaby wanted to refuse, it could be a trap. This club could be a decoy for whoever had kidnapped Illya. But at the same time, if it could lead her to Napoleon, it might be her only chance to find him before he vanished again. The security guard at the entrance was an amateur, he had not even searched her for weapons… and although she was not one to be fooled by appearances, Gaby was confident she could take on a few like him or like the waitress.

“Very well,” she answered. “Lead the way.”

The waitress walked to the back of the room, and Gaby followed her. She stopped in front of a dark wooden door, with a ‘employees only’ sign on it. The waitress knocked on the door.

“Wait here please,” she said as she went in, not waiting for an answer.

Gaby waited less than five minutes for the waitress to open the door again and ask her to come inside. “John will see you now.” Gaby went in, and the waitress closed the door behind her, leaving to take care of the remaining patrons.

The room Gaby found herself in was an office, with a wooden, expensive desk, and comfortable-looking chairs. Sitting at the desk was a man in his early forties, blonde hair slicked back, and he looked exactly like any businessman would. John. And that was probably not even his real name.

With a gesture of the hand, he asked Gaby to sit down. She complied.

“So, it has come to my attention that you are looking for Mr Solo.” Gaby nodded. Her fingers itched to grab her ID, or even her gun, but she was better than that, and this man had done nothing wrong  _ for now.  _ “You see, we want no trouble here, and have very good relations with people in very high places. I do not know who you are, Miss, but I’d rather not you come sniffing around our business. Mr Solo is a regular customer here, although we had not seen him for quite some time. I heard he had come clean.”

“Listen, I don’t care for the type of business you run here. I am not even supposed to be here.” Gaby did not know what compelled her to be this honest with him. “But I have to talk to Solo. He might have information that I need, and time is of the essence.”

“Pray tell, what type of information?” he asked with a professional smile. 

“The kind that could make me call for favors higher than any of your friends,” Gaby hissed between her teeth, “should it become clear you are involved.”

“Tssk, no need to be so defensive, Miss,” John answered, shaking his head. He was not smiling anymore. “I don’t really care about this to be honest. Mr Solo has been into all kind of dirty business, but that’s the art of the trade. All I want is to run _ my  _ trade in peace. So I think we can reach an agreement.”

“Can we?” Could she trust him? Probably not, but could she afford not to trust him?

“Of course. Mr Solo is upstairs. I suppose that with what he took these last days, he’s probably sleeping by now. I will not prevent you from leaving with him. I can even ask my staff to lend a hand.”

Although she was surprised by how easy it had been to convince him to help her, she hesitated to accept. It could be a trap, but perhaps it was not, and he was right, it was an agreement that benefited the both of them. She did not need to care about the drugs, or about anything she would see upstairs. In return, she would get Napoleon. She had come here to find him, what was she complaining about?

“We have an agreement,” she said, her mouth taking the decision before her brain could. “But what do you mean, these last days?” How long had Napoleon been there? And why? Gaby did not know what to think anymore, was he involved with Illya’s abduction?

“He arrived on Monday evening,” John answered, getting up from his chair. “It’s not so surprising to have some of our patrons stay the night. We do prefer that they safely remain here, you see. We have everything upstairs, bathrooms, bedrooms, and of course any party favors they could wish for.”

Gaby nodded. It still did not make much sense. Perhaps Napoleon had come here to hide after leading whoever had captured Illya to him. Perhaps, he had regretted his involvement, and decided to forget about it here. Perhaps… he was not involved. She did not dare to hope, and shook John’s hand as he held the door open for her. 

The waitress was on the other side of the door, and John made a gesture of the hand to which the waitress answered with a nod. 

“Follow me,” she said. Gaby nodded, and the waitress led her up a dark wooden staircase.

The first floor was less seedy than Gaby had expected -it was a rather high end place, after all, so what had she expected really? Dirty needles, dried blood and dusty furniture? It looked more like any expensive but not overly posh or trendy hotel would look. Numbered doors, clean floor and dim lights. What was happening, or what could happen behind the doors, she preferred not to know. Gaby followed the waitress down the corridor, until she stopped in front of a closed door. She produced a key ring from under her apron and unlocked the door.  _ This could still be a trap _ , Gaby’s instincts told her, but she did not listen and stepped inside the dark room. The waitress did not close the door, but did not come in either, waiting. 

Gaby found the light switch and the same dim, warm light than in the corridor illuminated the room. That was when she saw him. Napoleon was lying on a king-sized bed in the middle of the room, and even though he was partly covered by the bed sheets, Gaby could see that he was naked. She did not want to think about what he had done these past two days; it raised too many questions and she had to focus on more important matters at the moment. She quickly looked around, and his clothes had been thrown on the floor of the room. She did not fancy having to dress him -especially if he was unconscious- but the waitress did not seem very inclined to help.  _ Oh well.  _ Gaby had found him, and that was what mattered the most. She grabbed his left wrist and took his pulse,  _ alive, good.  _ She also tried to ignore the very obvious injection marks on his left arm. She knew enough of who he was, and what had happened to him not to judge him outright. Had he been anyone else, she would have felt some expert mix of disgust and pity, but she was too worried about his potential involvement in Illya’s abduction.  _ Besides, he might have been drugged against his will. He might not have had a choice to _ ― _ I’ll only know when he’ll come around.  _

Gaby started to gather Napoleon’s clothes under the watchful eye of the waitress. Finding Napoleon had been easier than she had thought it would be. Truth be told, she did not think she would find him at all. He should have disappeared. If he was involved, if he was a target of whoever had abducted Illya, why had he stayed in New York? She hoped to whichever god looked over spies and secret agents that Napoleon would answer these questions, once they were somewhere safe. Somewhere safe. Although she had solved her main problem -finding Napoleon- Gaby had a new, bigger problem now, she had to get out of here and find somewhere safe for Napoleon to wake up. She could not really call Mr Waverly and tell her that she had disobeyed his orders and found Napoleon. Two problems. She had found him in the second place on Sander’s list, so the probability he had known about Napoleon’s whereabouts -and thus Illya’s- was quite high. Three problems. 

Gaby knew she should not have come here, she should not have disobeyed. But how long would it have taken the team in charge of finding Illya to look at Sander’s list? One day more and Napoleon would have woken up and left, or  _ someone else _ would have found him first.

“Do you need help?” the waitress asked out of the blue. 

_ Yes. No.  _ “Help?” Gaby repeated, not sure about what the waitress had meant, or why she had waited until now to say something. 

“We deal with people of his kind regularly. Mr Solo is a very nice, accommodating man usually. Rarely have I seen him spend so long here, or get in such a wasted state.”

“So you did know who he was when I asked!” Gaby should not have been surprised, but part of her was slightly -quite- outraged. She was trying to save Illya, did they not know it? No, they did not, and she was lucky to have found Napoleon in the first place. She was very lucky that the staff had not been hostile. 

“Of course,” the waitress answered, “but you have to understand that I am in no position to make decisions. Besides, I do not know who you are, or why you were asking this question. But it seems that John does not mind you taking him, so I do not mind.”

“I understand.” Gaby did. Had she been in the same situation -not that she would ever work in a place such as this- she would have reacted the same way. The waitress was only being cautious, and obeying orders. 

“I suppose you know where you will be taking him,” the waitress said, taking the bundle of clothes from Gaby’s grasp.

Gaby nodded. 

“Use the phone to call a cab then, and I will dress him in the meantime. I am used to doing it, and to people in a far worse condition than he is.” 

“Do you know what Solo took?” Gaby was genuinely curious -and although she was not expecting an answer, it passed the time and perhaps, if she was lucky… 

The waitress shook her head. “I don’t, it’s not my district. Besides, the people he hooked up with could have slipped him something nasty, who knows.”

“I suppose I will find out soon enough,” Gaby said. She did not want to know more details, and was grateful that she did not have to dress Napoleon. She was no coward and had seen her fair share of people in a bad physical state, but that did not mean she appreciated it. He did not seem to be injured though. She searched in the memory for the phone number of a cab company Illya and her had used once or twice, and phoned them, watching the waitress dress Napoleon from the corner of her eye. The voice on the other end promised that they would send someone, and Gaby gave the address.

Less than ten minutes had passed when the phone rang again. The waitress picked up. “The cab’s there.” Before Gaby would wonder how she was going to drag Napoleon downstairs on her own -or if the waitress would be willing to help with that too- a security guard came, and, without a word, helped Gaby carry Napoleon and dump him in the cab. Gaby thanked him as she sat down beside Napoleon, feeling drained. 

“Tough night?” the cabbie asked with a smirk.

“You can say that,” Gaby answered, not wanting to elaborate much more. The cabbie had no idea how rough the last days had been for them, and it was probably better this way. 

“He’s lucky to have you,” he added as he turned on the engine of the car. 

“Yeah. Whether he thinks that when he wakes up is something else.”

The cabbie chuckled but did not answer anything -and Gaby preferred it that way- and they drove through the busy streets.

She left a large tip and the cabbie helped her carry Napoleon up to her flat. Gaby then dragged Napoleon to the sofa before locking the door and resetting all the alarms.

“So, what do you suggest I do with you now?” she asked, slumping into her favorite armchair, exhausted by her adventures of the night. Of course, Napoleon did not answer.

For half a second, Gaby thought about shaking him awake, but if being dressed, carried down a flight of stairs, dragged into a cab and then carried up a flight of stairs had not woken him up, there was little chance that she would succeed without an excessive use of strength. And she did not want to damage him too much yet. He had to be able to answer her questions, otherwise all of this would have been for nothing. 

She could only wait. Wait, and mull over what to do. Should she tell Mr Waverly the truth yet? It would be the smartest thing to do, but she did not look forward to being reprimanded for disobeying orders. Gaby yawned. 

She fell asleep on the armchair, still in her dress, still with her ID and her weapons safely tucked in her clothes.

The sunlight woke Gaby up, and it took her all of her willpower not to go back to sleep. She yawned, and got up from the armchair. A quick look at the clock told her that it was half past seven. She had barely slept two hours, and had the nasty feeling that today was going to be a rather tough day. Still, she had hope that the rescue team had found clues, a trail, anything that would lead them to Illya. 

Napoleon was still unconscious -although it seemed to Gaby that he was just sleeping peacefully. She would have to wake him up -and figure out whether or not she could trust him- before going to HQ. Quickly, Gaby took a shower and changed into her working clothes before making coffee. She poured a mug for herself and then took a glass of water for Napoleon and went back in the living room. She shook Napoleon’s shoulder to wake him up. 

“Napoleon?”

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. Napoleon tried to sit up, only to fall back on the sofa. 

Gaby gave him the glass of water. He drank, then said, his voice still hoarse: “Gaby―”

_ Well at least he recognises me.  _

“How are you feeling?”  _ What did you do to Illya? _

Napoleon did not answer. He gave her the glass back, his hand shaking. “Illya―” 

Napoleon’s voice sounded… afraid? There was something in his eyes, something shining behind the lingering haze of the drugs, an uncharacteristic fear. And why had he mentioned Illya? Napoleon looked as though he might be sick. Gaby felt sorry for him, he looked nothing like himself. She had so many questions, but perhaps now was not the right time. She had not let her anger and worry take control earlier, and that had been a real success. She stood up. She was not going to let them win now. She sat down next to Napoleon and said, trying her best not to sound threatening:

“Illya, yes. Do you know where he is?”

Napoleon looked at Gaby, then at his hands. “What― He is not here?” He sounded lost and miserable. “What happened to Illya?”

“You don’t know?” Gaby asked. Even if he knew, there was no reason for him to tell her the truth. He had been one of the CIA’s finest after all.

Napoleon shook his head.  _ Of course. _

“I’ll get you some more water,” Gaby said, more as an excuse to get up and collect her thoughts. 

Back in the kitchen, Gaby leaned against the counter. Did Napoleon know? Could she trust him? She re-filled the glass and took a deep breath. She  _ wanted _ to trust him. She wanted him to help her find Illya. But could she? She looked through the kitchen window, hoping to find an answer, a clue, anything. As the clock ticked by, Gaby was starting more and more to regret disobeying Mr Waverly. Even if Napoleon was innocent, Mr Waverly would find out one way or another, and Napoleon and her were powerless to do anything on their own. Of course, Gaby had been well aware of the risks she had been taking, but she had followed her instinct instead of her head. It was too late now, with Napoleon in the living room. Still, what could she say?  _ Illya has been abducted, and I found you all on my own, because Mr Waverly does not want me on the case? Oh, and also you are one of the suspects. _

She went back to the living room, and gave the glass to Napoleon. “Illya’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter, and that you are all staying safe, wearing your mask. Next chapter will be from Napoleon's POV, and published next month.   
> (By the way, I actually changed and cropped this chapter a lot, it was quite hellish to edit my first draft written during this Nano. But I still hope you liked it. Believe me this plot is going somewhere.)


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